


Trace the Line to the Root

by Neyiea



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Pre-Movie(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-06
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-02-28 10:15:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 4,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2728604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neyiea/pseuds/Neyiea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the Days for Durins challenge on tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dís

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dís receives a present from her parents.

For her thirty-fifth birthday her father and mother give her a pair of polished obsidian hair sticks. They are capped in gold and perfectly smooth to the touch, until about halfway down where they have been filed to create fine points on either side.

She is familiar with the concept of an obsidian blade and knows that, though fragile, their edges can be sharper than the best steel. Dís thanks her parents for the present, for they truly are beautiful, but she wonders over the meaning of them.

Whenever her brothers are gifted with weapons they are great, dangerous pieces, forged especially for them. Nothing as covert as this.  
Dís wonders why, of all the things they could have given her, they gave her something essentially made of glass.

She is not one to keep questions to herself for long.

Dís goes to her parent’s quarters that night, the delicate, breakable weapons laying in their thin display case while a thousand thoughts run through her mind.

Her father and mother don’t seem surprised to see her, and welcome her to sit by the fire.

"I’d rather stand, if it’s all the same." She looks down at the box in her hands, fingers tapping against the glass cover. "Amad, adad, this is the first birthday that you’ve given me anything that could be considered a weapon, and I am thankful that you finally view me as being old enough to handle one, but why something so clandestine? Why not an actual dagger, or a sword, or axe? You know I’ve been wanting to join Thorin and Frerin’s training, why would you give me something that’s more of an ornament than a weapon?"

Her parents appear to share a look of great significance, and finally her mother is the one to stand before her, laying her hands upon her shoulders.

"Dís, just because we have given you a weapon meant to be concealed amongst your person, doesn’t mean we don’t want you to participate in whatever weapons training you wish."

"Really? I had thought…"

"You thought that we’d only want you to practice with stealth-weapons, methods of last resort should you ever be attacked?"

"Well, yes." Her eyes take in her mother’s understanding visage before flickering over to her father. "But that’s not the case?"

"Of course not," her father begins, "you are a Daughter of the Line of Durin, you may learn whatever you like, be it sword, axe, or bow." He smiles and adds, hushed, "I had heard from a little raven that you were more fond of the axe, compared to anything else."

She flushes. Her training with her cousin is supposed to be a secret and she’s not sure if one of her brothers managed to find out and tattled on her, or if one of the actual ravens caught them in the act and reported it back. 

Her father steps next to her mother and he reaches out for the box Dís still holds in her hands, opening the lid and taking one of the hair ornaments out. “I’ve told you about obsidian blades before, haven’t I?”

"Yes, adad."

"Then think of this gift as a metaphor. Well crafted and balanced, truly lovely." He runs the edge over the pad of his thumb, so lightly that it almost looks as though it is not touching at all, but red blooms against the black blade almost instantly. "But so, so dangerous. So sharp, it doesn’t even hurt."

"Beautiful and deadly, as all dwarrowdams are," her mother adds in an amused tone, running a hand along the stubble slowly growing in on Dís’s jaw. "But you, my daughter, will be exceptionally so, especially if you keep practicing with Dwalin as you have been."

"And to tell the truth," her father rubs at the back of his neck, uncommonly reserved, "I had also commissioned a bardiche to be made for you, but a fire got out of hand in the forge and it won’t be done for another-"

Dís doesn’t let her father finish, just darts forward to wrap her arms around his middle and bury her face in the crook of his neck.

"Thank you, adad. I will treasure this gift," she blinks rapidly and sniffles, "as well as whatever else you see fit to give me."

“See fit to give you, as if I wouldn’t wrap up all of Erebor for you if I could, my princess.” He presses a kiss to the top of her head.

"Well, I couldn’t take all of Erebor." Dís pulls back and wipes at her eyes, sharing a smile with her mother and father. "We’d have to leave something for my brothers."


	2. Frerin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frerin doesn’t excel at all the same things as his siblings, but he has his own skill set.

Their mother is very adamant on the idea that all of her children should receive a well-rounded education. Knowing a bit of politics and how to fight is all well and good, but what about music, art, dancing? Or public speaking, critical thinking, diplomacy?

Frerin is quick to learn that, while he enjoys listening to music, there is absolutely no hope for him when it comes to performing it. He can’t sit still long enough to truly appreciate art, let alone create it. Dancing can sometimes be enough like training that he’s decent at it, but having to dance with a partner throws him off.

Dís and Thorin generally find these skills easier to slip into (except for dancing because Thorin can’t stand it and refuses to even practice), but Frerin doesn’t worry about it too much.

Because everything else? He’s got it in spades.

It’s not just that he somehow managed to end up the most level-headed of his siblings, but also that he’s quite adept at looking and listening.

There is no favouritism amongst their family, but when your elder sibling will be heir to the throne one day and your younger sibling is the only girl you get used to not having as much fuss made about you, even if you do get equal amounts of attention.

And when less fuss is being made over you, you learn to sit back and observe. 

So while his mother takes charge of Dís and Thorin’s musical education, she is also the one to teach him how to be assertive without being aggressive, how to communicate effectively, and how to be cordial.

"Even to elves," she tells him with a wry sort of smile and Frerin looks up from his notes with a furrowed brow.

"Why wouldn’t I be cordial to an elf? They’re all several hundred years older than I am, I know to respect my elders."

She laughs and takes his face in her hands, brushing their foreheads together.

"Oh Frerin, my treasure, you will be such a gift to your brother when the time comes that he must ascend the throne."

"I’m a gift to him now, to be honest."

"Aye, a gift to us all." She presses a kiss to his forehead and pulls back. "My steady, even-tempered son, what would I do without you?"

His lips purse in mock thought. “Well, you’d have no one to play mediator whenever Thorin and Dís have a fight, so I think we can safely say that there would be no survivors.”

His mother laughs again, mirthfully wiping at her eyes.

"It is a very good thing that you are here for us, then."


	3. Dáin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a day he will remember for the rest of his life.

He’s been planning this hunting trip for weeks, now that his father has finally deemed him old enough to go off into the wilds without too much supervision, so Dáin drifts on and off the balconies to ensure that the weather isn’t going to take a turn for the worse.

A dark cloud catches his eye and he squints at it sourly before the breeze rustling against his hair makes him come to the realization that it’s moving against the wind.

His hands clench against the railing as he leans over it, as if the few inches he gains will make him see any clearer, and he watches for several long moments before he can recognize the dark mass for what it is.

Ravens. Dozens upon dozens of ravens.

He remembers, vaguely, that when his cousin Dís had been born Erebor had sent many messengers to proudly announce her birth, but that had been seven at most.

He’s never seen so many coming at once.

Dáin’s eyes widen at the fleeting thought of his aunt giving birth to twins and before he even realizes it he’s dashing off of the balcony and down the hall to his father’s council room.

"Adad! Adad," he calls as he rushes in, "ravens are coming, so many of them!"

"Ravens?" Náin murmurs, eyes lifting up to the air vents that open to the outdoors, a common path for the birds to take when their news is too important for formalities.

All at once they begin streaming in and Dáin opens his mouth to let loose a slew of questions but-

They’re screaming and crying, all of them together, and the sound is so horrible that Dáin covers his ears in an attempt to block it out. Even then he cannot find silence, and he slowly becomes aware of what the messengers are wailing.

Erebor has fallen.

His hands drop to his sides and his eyes lock with his father’s, the sudden sting of tears making itself known.

Erebor has fallen, and not everybody made it out alive.


	4. Thrór

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s a bit of a secret that Thrór really, truly loves eating vegetables.

Thrór easily sneaks along the familiar route, keeping an eye out for anyone who might question why the King would be wandering around without any guards, or worse, anyone who had been told that he’d be in a series of important meetings for the next hour and could not be disturbed.

Lying about his whereabouts isn’t something he’s particularly proud of, but it’s a habit he had gotten into all the way back when his father Dáin, first of his name, was King.

His father had once invited Thranduil to Erebor for a Durin’s Day celebration and, to Dáin’s bewildered surprise, the Elven King accepted.

It was in a state of near-panic that his father prompted their kitchen staff to prepare ‘green food’ in addition to their already perfectly diverse menu, and everyone was to partake in eating it so that Thranduil wouldn’t catch on to the fact that it was really prepared only for him.

Thrór had, as all dwarflings before him, been sullen at the idea of having to eat vegetables but had done his duty and filled his plate with them, taking a cautious bite when nobody was looking in case he had to spit it back out.

He chewed slowly and eventually came to the realization that it didn’t taste bad.

In fact it was rather good. He finished his plate, almost asking for seconds, but managed to contain himself.

A dwarf can eat vegetables, if they have to or if it’s balanced out by a healthy portion of meat, but they most certainly do not enjoy them.

Except Thrór did, a lot.

So he got into the habit of sneaking into the kitchen at night and having a midnight snack of whatever raw vegetables he could find and prepare himself.

Then he became old enough that he wasn’t quite so worried about a stray cook telling his father about his strange appetite and he’d go during the day instead, claiming that he’d gone to train or study as opposed to demurely ordering one of the lower-ranked workers to make him some caramelized onions and glazed carrots since they were the ‘best cure for a headache, no, really’. 

He’s fairly sure the entire kitchen staff had him figured out within the first several times of him showing up, but he was too content with his stuffed red peppers to care.

Nowadays he doesn’t have to worry about his mother or father catching him mid-bite, but he’s still a bit wary about people outside of his trusted circle of kitchen staff finding out just how much he enjoys the occasional salad.

Maybe he’ll let his family know someday, but until then he’ll savour each morsel in peace.

Thrór slips into the kitchen without a hitch and nearly rubs his hands together in anticipation for a good, green meal.


	5. Thráin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s a typical night for Thráin and his children.

He searches high and low for his wayward children, all of whom had come the the conclusion that playing hide and go seek was a much better alternative to having a bath and going to bed. Thráin can’t say that he disagrees with their logic, and he’s actually quite proud of the way they scattered, all of them running in different directions, showing off an innate knowledge of tactics.

Thorin is the easiest to find, partially because he’s reaching the age where he doesn’t take the game as seriously as he once did and partially because Thráin receives some unexpected help from his own father. Thrór approaches him to discuss his opinion on the new trade agreement with Dale, face perfectly neutral except for the twinkle in his eyes, and when they finish he glances over to a decorative tapestry that has a small pair of boots peeking out from underneath it, huffing out a laugh before going on his way.

"Aha!" Thráin exclaims as he pushes the tapestry aside and Thorin grins up at him. "I’ve found you, dear son, and now you must go to your mother so she can help you get ready for bed."

"Do I have to? I’m not even tired yet."

"Well," Thráin crouches down with a smile, "how about this: if you help me find your brother and sister quickly, and get ready right after, I’ll read you another chapter from your book tonight. Sound fair?"

Thorin nods and grabs ahold of his hand, tugging him down the hallway.

They find Frerin crouching behind a decorative suit of armour, half asleep. He yawns and nods when Thráin tells him to go to his mother, but doesn’t move to stand up from the floor.

Then his head falls back and he lets out a soft snore.

Thráin and Thorin share a look.

"I’ll help get him to mother," Thorin informs him in an adorably serious manner, "you find Dís."

Ah, Dís, always the hardest to find.

She’s just so small, she can jam herself into a spot that Thráin never even knew existed and walk out once he’s given up, covered in dust and perfectly content.

"Where, oh where has my dear princess gone?" He muses loudly as he wanders the corridors. "Is she in the kitchens? Or the council room? Or maybe the library?" He opens doors to peer inside as he passes, and finally comes across one that isn’t fully closed.

"Her mother will be quite cross with me if I don’t find her."

He hears a muffled giggle from inside and takes it as a cue to rush in.

Dís laughs even louder when he scoops her into his arms and presses kisses to her forehead.

"Here is my princess, how marvellous it is to find you. Are you ready to go to bed?"

She grins and chirps, “yes.”

"Wonderful to hear, but first you need a bath."

Dís groans unhappily, slumping in his arms, and Thráin barely manages to hold in his laughter.


	6. Thráin & Thrór

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thráin and Thrór receive wonderful news.

When Thrór’s wife had been alive she’d been quite firm on an imposed rule that stated, no matter how busy with his duties he was, he would have dinner with his family at least four times a week. He had forgotten only once, and being dragged away from his advisors like a dwarfling about to get a scolding had ensured that he’d never forget again.

He keeps up with the tradition after she’s passed on, even though it’s not the same without her sitting beside him offering comfort and council, and pointedly patting the back of his hand whenever he starts talking about work that must be done.

He and his son aren’t especially great conversationalists when it comes to small talk; they see each other often during the day and there’s very little going on in each other’s lives that they don’t already know about, but thankfully Thráin’s wife is adept at mending that particular gap.

It seems that Durins, no matter the generation they were born into, were destined to fall in love with someone who could make conversation flow like wine at an Elven celebration.

She is especially talkative on this night, her cheeks are rosy and her eyes are glossy, and Thrór would be worried about his daughter-in-law’s health were it not for how energetic she carried on. She pauses, every once in a while, to send a particularly fond look to Thráin and reach out to clasp his hand. Thráin is so bewildered but delighted by her numerous shows of affection that he spends most of the meal staring at her as if the very ground upon which she walked should be worshipped.

Thrór remembers feeling like that, and he still does, whenever he reminisces about his wife, so he resolves not to tease his son about it too much.

It is as dinner is nearing its end that her demeanour becomes a little more withdrawn. She drains the rest of the water from her glass, having politely refused any wine or ale this evening, and clears her throat.

"I have something very important to announce," she begins, her face serious enough that Thrór begins to worry that he should have asked about her health, but then she slowly breaks into a bright smile. The colour in her cheeks deepens and her eyes shine as if with unshed tears, but all together she is the picture of absolute happiness.

_Oh._

He is sure he has seen this expression once before, on one of the happiest days of his own life.

"I’m with child," she declares, and even if Thrór had been expecting it the news still comes as a shock. To be graced with a child, so early in their marriage, his son and daughter-in-law are blessed, indeed.

Thráin goes utterly still for but a moment, and then with shaking hands he reaches out for her.

"You are sure?"

She nods, joyful tears making tracks down her face. “I went to the midwife today, and she confirmed it.”

Thráin is out of his chair lightening fast, picking his wife up and spinning her once before pulling her into his arms and burying his face into her hair.

They’re both crying now, and Thrór has to fight off a couple tears of his own as he stands and walks towards them, placing a hand upon each of their shoulders and a kiss upon each of their brows.

"Congratulations," he says warmly, "may this day be blessed."

Without any further ado his son and daughter-in-law pull him into the embrace.

If he happens to shed a few tears after that, well, he is sure no one will blame him for it.


	7. Thorin & Frerin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frerin’s not old enough to play the _really_ fun games yet, but Thorin loves his little brother anyway.

"He’s still very small," Thorin remarks, hands hovering just around Frerin’s sides in case he happens to fall over.

"Of course he is," his mother ruffles his hair, "but look, he’s finally big enough to sit up all by himself."

It’s true, Frerin does occasionally waver, and Thorin’s outstretched hands follow his motions cautiously, but his little brother never completely looses his balance. 

"When will he be big enough to play with me?"

His mother laughs. “I’m afraid it will still be a few years until he can do all of the things you can, dear, but you can still play with him, gently.”

Thorin casually ignores that Frerin has turned and grabbed ahold of one of his braids to happily gnaw on the dark hair and lets his hands settle on his brother’s shoulders.

"I am gentle," he informs her quite seriously. "Frerin likes it when I pretend to steal his nose."

"Yes he does."

"And he likes to chew on my hair."

"That as well," she kneels in front of her seated children and pulls Thorin’s braid out of Frerin’s mouth. "Though that’s not really playing, it might be a sign that he’s teething."

"Teething?" Thorin’s face scrunches up at the unfamiliar word.

"That his teeth will start growing in soon."

"Ah." He glances down at Frerin’s mouth. "Will it hurt?"

"A little, but we’ll just have to be extra careful with him, and understand that even though he doesn’t look hurt he might be a bit tender and sore."

"So he’s going to cry a lot."

"Maybe. Probably just as much as you did, when your teeth were coming in."

"Hmm." Thorin pouts, not liking being reminded that it was only a handful of years ago that he was Frerin’s age. He turns his attention to his brother’s sandy-blond locks.

"His hair’s getting long. Can I braid it for him?"

"Of course you can, once it’s a little longer, and if he sits still enough for you."

"He’s sitting still for me now."

"Yes, because Frerin loves his older brother very much."

Thorin grins and ducks his head, playfully nosing at Frerin’s fine hair and whispering, ”Thorin loves his younger brother, too.”


	8. Dís & Frerin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dís is still a bit too young to know how to properly braid hair, not that that stops her from practicing (on her brothers).

Frerin’s old enough to realize that, when Dís starts toying with his hair and asks if she can braid it, he is allowed to say no. Dís might pout at him for a couple of hours and complain to their mother, but she’ll be over his refusal by tomorrow.

Besides, he’d seen first-hand what she’d done to Thorin’s hair the one and only time their elder brother had conceded to her request, too weak to say no when faced with her puppy-dog eyes. The end result hadn’t been pleasant for Thorin, who’d had to sit in their mother’s lap for nearly an hour before bed so that she could untangle the multiple knots strewn through his hair.

So Frerin knows he doesn’t have to give in, not when Dís’s eyes grow wider or even when her lip starts to tremble, but, well…

He’s just as weak when it comes to her as Thorin is.

No one can braid perfectly from the start, and he’ll gladly face a handful of tangles if it means his sister’s glossy eyes will go back to normal.

"Alright," he says, fighting back a smile when she claps her hands together happily before taking his hand and leading him away.

Thorin catches his eye as he passes, looking worried, but he relaxes when Frerin throws him a reassuring wink.

"As long as you know what you’re getting into," he murmurs, reaching out to pat him on the shoulder in a moment of solidarity before he’s out of range.

Dís sits him down on the floor and stands behind him, combing her fingers through his sandy mane excitedly before her small, steady hands start separating his hair into sections.

The end result is, as expected, an intricately convoluted sort of mess which Dís proudly shows off to the other members of their family before she finally fetches Frerin a mirror to see for himself.

"Y’like it?" She asks sweetly, almost shy, and Frerin grins.

"I love it."

The smile he gets in return is well worth the extra time he has to spend in the bath that night, brushing out the snares.


	9. Dís & Fíli

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fíli wonders why he’s the only one in his family with blond hair. Dís decides to talk to him about the Uncle he never knew.

She has only just finished putting Kíli to sleep for the second time, he's quite a lot more fussy than his brother was at his age and tends to try and sneak out of bed, and as she backs out of his dark nursery she finds herself running into something and nearly tripping over it.

Dís whirls around to find her eldest son, a bit frazzled but unhurt, and she ducks down to pick him up into her arms.

"I'm sorry about that, Fíli dear. Amad needs to watch where she's going, doesn't she?"

Fíli nods absentmindedly, one of his small hands reaching up to gently card through her beard. "Amad," he starts slowly, his hand falling away from her face, "may I ask you something?"

"Of course you may."

His brow furrows and his lips thin, all together looking far too solemn than any nine year old ought to. Dís holds back the urge to coo at him and schools her face into an equally somber expression.

"Kíli's hair is brown, your hair is brown, Adad's hair is brown, Irak'adad's hair is brown. Why isn't mine?"

"Because you're my little mountain lion, that's why."

" _Amad_." He starts squirming in her arms and she sets him back down on the floor. "This is serious."

"Ah yes, of course it is." She presses her lips to his forehead. "I am sorry."

"Is it because..." His face scrunches up. "Is it because I'm not-"

"It isn't because you _are_ or _are not_ anything, Fíli. Sometimes when children are born they're a little different from their parents, that is all." She tucks a strand of hair behind his ear. "But that does not mean that they share no common traits within their extended family, why, sometimes when I look at you, you remind me of-" her throat constricts, but Fíli looks too interested for her to stop short of telling him, "my own nadad, Frerin."

It's not that she and Thorin never speak about Frerin, but they do not often mention him directly when the children are around. Cherished memories of their lost sibling are more likely to be shared on dark, cold nights, when even just mentioning Frerin's love and laughter can bring them both out of whatever gloomy mood had taken hold.

Frerin had always been the most sensible of the three; less likely to allow his negative emotions to get the best of him, easily forgiving transgressions, quick to trust, slow to pass judgment.

The mediator, whenever she and Thorin were at odds with each other.

"You don't talk about him a lot," Fíli says, breaking Dís out of her reverie.

"I suppose I do not. Perhaps it is time to change that?" She kneels down in front of her son so that their eyes are level, and she reaches out to comb her fingers through his hair. "Your Irak'adad Frerin had sandy-blond hair like yours. He had a laugh like yours too." Bright and open, Frerin was never one to conceal his happiness. A fond smile spreads across her face as she stands. "If you like, after I tuck you into bed tonight I could tell you more about him."

Fíli slips one of his small hands into hers.

"I'd like that very much."


End file.
